Lady Elizabeth
by Lindsey Grissom
Summary: A selection of 'what could be's for Lady Elizabeth and Carson the Butler of my Five Names universe. Unconnected little wrap-ups for their story. Some may be NSFW. No spoilers.
1. A Little Of What You Fancy

**A/N:** So sorry for spamming the fandom, but since I was in the document manager, I thought I should take the time to upload this.  
This is an extension story to the **Lady Elizabeth** universe from my _**Five Names**_ and _**Five Christmases**_ fics. You see there was a chat on tumblr, there were many ideas for how the Lady Elizabeth might conclude her story with Mr Carson, but I think basically they summed up to four ways. The first of which you'll find below. The idea is is, you get to choose which ending you would like for them to have. Each of the four will be different in setting and situation and one or two may seem rather less believable and stretch reality a little, but as Fellowes said on _**Text Santa**_**; no one cares** (hopefully). This one gets a little NSFW near the end.

_In which Mr Carson disregards the class divide entirely and they live a little._

* * *

**A Little Of What You Fancy**

It starts just after they lose poor dear Matthew. The world changes again, their world more than most and she finds herself spending more time at Downton, less at home or on the Continent as she planned.

She might have only been Sybil's Godmother, but she loves all the girls; even Mary with her painfully sharp tongue.

She stays with Violet at first, splits her time between Isobel's house and the Abbey. She can't imagine what it must be like to lose a son, not one that made it through birth and childhood, through that terrible war only to perish just as he became a father himself. No, she cannot begin to understand the pain her friend feels, but she hopes her presence helps. If nothing else she keeps Violet entertained enough that Isobel doesn't find herself on the end of a poorly timed remark as often as she could.

Mary she understands a little better; it cannot possibly be the same of course, but the poor thing has found herself rather surrounded by widows these days.

She is glad most though, for Tom. He is the only one who has a hope of knowing what Mary is going through and she thinks this might bring them closer, if Mary will let it.

After a while, she starts to stay at the Abbey again when she visits. She adores young Sybbie and she fears Edith might be feeling a little left out, but mostly she is afraid of what she might do to Violet if she stays with the woman another night.

Mrs White always has a room ready for her and since Charlie got bigger, Ethel has become more of a housemaid than a ladies maid. {Not a kitchen maid though, no that was one disastrous attempt that no one wishes to repeat.} Anna Bates copes as she always has, but mostly she finds she prefers to dress and undress alone. That way, if she wants to pause with her dress off and her corset and shift on, to sit in a chair and read a chapter or two of her book by candlelight before continuing on to bed, well, she can without a maid hovering at her side to collect her things. She simply lays everything aside to be collected when she leaves her room in the morning; it isn't as though she is going to complain if her dresses take a day or two longer to be returned to her.

Freedom, that's what she likes. Violet would say that she has been alone for too long, flung out up in the North or visiting in Europe; has strayed too far from _'the way things are done'_, and she is correct, of course but she is wrong to think that being any other way now could make her happy.

She supposes this is what comes when young women marry older men, she and George were happy enough together, but he had his life and she hers and without children, there wasn't really much that pulled them together but balls and parties and conversation over afternoon tea.

He never worried if she spent her mornings in the gardens, or learning to cook in the kitchens, so long as when they hosted she treated their servants as that, and presented herself as a Lady should when in society. He had known who he was marrying and God rest him, he never asked her to change too much to fit into his life.

She sees very little reason why now, as she gets older and finds herself under far less scrutiny, she should consider living any other way. The world today is a young person's world; is she not allowed to savour the years she has left on her own terms; finding happiness wherever it might lie?

It is these thoughts, and a glass too many of Robert's favourite scotch, that starts everything. Or at least gives her the Dutch courage to truly begin something she feels started quite some time ago.

Edith retires early, Mary having taken supper in her room. Cora and Robert disappeared some time ago and finding herself alone, the familiar presence of Mr Carson looming in the corner, she reaches for a second glass and pours a finger of scotch into it.

"For you, Mr Carson." She walks to him, holds out the glass which he takes likely by habit alone.

"Lady Hawthorne I couldn't—"

"What you can't do, Mr Carson, is let it go to waste now it's been poured." She picks her own glass up from the table, sips at the smoky drink. "Besides, I'm sure it isn't proper for a woman to drink alone."

"Then, if you will excuse my overstepping, milady, perhaps you should retire for the evening."

She had known of course, that this would not be easy. She has not been blind these last years to her feelings for him — and she will use that word, in her own mind at least —, knows that when she sees the street artists along the Seine, the wonderful landscapes they paint by the hour, she wants to turn to him and ask which he thinks are the better likeness. She realises that these are not thoughts that Ladies have about their friend's servants, but friends have of friends, lovers have for each other. She realises too that she cannot know his own thoughts or feelings, but she has seen, has felt his eyes on her. Is sure she has not imagined his interest. But all those reasons she has told herself over the years for why they cannot be more than Lady and servant; if she has thought them then he will have too, and will hold more tightly to them than her position requires she do.

"I should, Mr Carson, you're right. But you see, I'd still be alone then."

Keeping her head tipped down she looks up at him from beneath her lashes. {Something she learnt from an actress in New York.}

He swallows, adjusts his waistcoat with his free hand. "Milady, I'm not certain—"

"Mr Carson, have you ever wanted something you know you shouldn't? Thought about it to the point of distraction?"

He swallows again, "Lady Hawthorne, if there is anything that you want—"

She interrupts him with a wave of her hand, closes the distance between them with careful steps. "There are many things I want, Mr Carson. Some of them I think you might be able to give me, others I'm sure you could if you would try. But I'll settle first, for you sharing a drink with me. Don't worry about Lord Grantham," she adds, "I will be sure to say I tricked you into it if it comes to that."

She believes she sees him waver, the glass in his hand rising just a little higher.

She meets his eye then, drops the act. All of her acts. She stands before him as herself, the thought alone starts a fine tremble throughout her body. Her voice, when it comes, is lowered with her accent, as raw as the day she learnt to hide it. "Don't you ever wonder what it might be like, Mr Carson, to take what you want, when it's being offered to you? To live a little?"

She holds her breath for a beat, for two but lets it out in a fast rush when he lifts his glass to his lips and takes a good mouthful.

The spirit is there on his breath when he leans towards her ear to whisper. "Are you quite sure you know _what_ you want, milady?"

Her free hand rests against his chest, her fingers splay out across his waistcoat. "Very, Mr Carson. Very."

—

Of course, it is only the start. They don't kiss, there in the library. She moves back from him and they both finish their drinks, unable to look away from each other.

When she retires a few minutes later, he does not accompany her, she does not expect him to, but goes downstairs instead to complete his chores and she stands alone in her room, hand pressed hard to her heart. The scotch burns through her, makes her pulse pound in her head.

She expects to feel regret, fear. To worry that she has made a fool of herself, has insulted a man she would never want to. She has heard of Ladies that find comfort in their footman, the groomsmen. Young pretty boys to pass the time with. But this is not that.

In truth, she would like just as much to sit with Mr Carson over breakfast and discuss current events, as she would anything else she might have set in motion tonight.

She waits for the fear, but it doesn't come. Her eyes settle on the book by her bed, not the one she left there this morning — finished, but another bound in black. She smiles and reaches for the buttons at her side.

As she told him; she is sure of what she wants, of what she thinks they both want. Tonight more than ever.

—

She reads the book he left her late into the night. Sleep does not come easily to her these days, and more than anything she wants to savour the feelings the evening have brought her. To replay Mr Carson's voice as he leant down to speak in her ear. The coarse feel of his waistcoat, the warmth of him beneath that seeped into her fingertips.

The next morning she smiles at him as usual as she enters the breakfast room, he tilts his head and there is nothing different, nothing to indicate that anything occurred the night before, that an understanding was reached.

The note is hidden in her morning post and she smiles into her napkin as she reads it.

_**I wish to live a little tonight**_

"You seem happy this morning, Aunt Elsie. Have you had good news from Manchester?"

She sips at her tea, folds the note in half and half again and tucks it into the band of her sleeve, turns to Edith. "Closer than that, my dear. But yes. Good news indeed." She avoids looking to Mr Carson but sees the twitch he gives all the same, the smile that very nearly lifts his lips. "Now, what do you have planned for the day Robert?"

—

The first time that he comes to her, she finds she cannot draw a steady breath.

It seems odd that she cannot call him by his Christian name, that she does not even mention her own to him.

She is glad at least that he does not call her 'milady', does not call her anything at all as he kneels beside the bed and removes her stockings one after the other, his fingers brushing her calves as he slips the flimsy cotton down to her ankles and off her feet.

Her dress tonight is simple, she has given in a little to the modern trend of a rather straight gown, but cannot quite let go of her corset for a brassier. And so her form is still stiff and artificial as she perches on the mattress.

His fingers shake as he reaches for the clasp at her neck and she catches his wrist in her own.

"I won't force you." She says, searches out his eyes and holds his gaze. "If you don't want this, I need you to know that you're free to walk away. I'll say nothing, and things will go on as they always have." It will hurt certainly, to have almost had this and to know that she can't because he does not want it, but it would hurt so much more to find out that whatever they might have, she has it through coercion and without honest consent.

He smiles at her then, turns his hand and pulls until their palms meet. His fingers slip between hers, filling the gaps. "In another life this would be easy."

She laughs, shakes her head and leans forward until her breath hits his cheek and bounces back at her. "I don't think this is ever easy, but it might be less of a scandal."

He closes the last of the space between them, his lips touching hers with force. She can be sure, at least, that he wants this.

His hands are steady now when he reaches for her dress, slips the hook from the eye and watches the fall of French satin puddle in her lap.

He tips her back and she lifts her hips until she lies against the sheets in just her corset and shift, the silk knickers that tie with little blue bows.

Her jewellery rests heavy against her neck and the pins in her hair dig into the back of her head and yet, as he settles down beside her, his jacket folded neatly on the armchair, she doesn't care a whit about any of it.

"Remind me." She says a while later, when she has her hand beneath his half-open shirt and his teeth nip almost playfully at her collarbone. "I must ask your thoughts on this MacDonald fellow, they say we could see a Labour Government soon."

He pulls away from her, his hair tangled on one side where her fingers are twisted up in it. "It will never happen." He says, "The country would fall to ruin."

There's no hesitation in his answer, no demurring or sidestepping. He gives his opinion freely and even as his hands slip lower on her body, as his lips follow; tasting the skin of her stomach, his tongue dipping into her navel, even as he touches her where only one ever has before, her eyes fill with tears not for his touch, not for the tenderness in the way his fingers dip beneath her curls but in knowing that finally, she has access to the true Mr Carson, the man behind the Butler.

She gasps as his fingertip slips inside her and tilts her head back into her pillows.

Love, she wonders, it might really be love.

—

It is years before they are discovered, months still after that while they convince Mr Barrow to hold his tongue.

It is Mr Carson, in the end, who does what she cannot. Who retires with an excuse of age and moves North.

It is not a perfect life; she can never be Mrs Carson and he can never be just Charles. But they are happy and on a Sunday morning in January, she looks across his table, meets his eyes above the paper and smiles as he bites his toast.

"And you said we'd never see a Labour Government."

He raises an eyebrow, curls his lip and gives the paper a firm shake to straighten it.

"The end is nigh." He says and she laughs.


	2. Viva La Vida

**A/N: Oh thank you, I love that you've all loved the first ending to Lady Elizabeth's story. Now we move onto option 2.**

_In which Lady Elizabeth loses her title and not everyone is as upset about it as Violet Crawley._**  
**

* * *

**Viva La Vida**

_**August 1924**_

"It's just ghastly, Aunt Elsie."

Dear Edith looks one word away from throwing herself across the room, and while she is not adverse to a little human contact, she really doesn't think this is worth quite so much drama.

"It's really not so bad." Marigold smiles up at her from her lap, not understanding a word that's being said and she smiles back, wrinkles her nose and crosses her eyes to make the darling thing giggle. The child has her mother's quiet laugh, although she is of course not supposed to see that.

"You've lost your title Elizabeth! Your house, the money. Are we to find you on the streets next week, singing for your supper?"

Of course Violet would choose _this_ situation to flex her own melodramatic wings. "Violet please. I'm not a pauper. Lord Hawthorne ensured that I would have enough to live on without signing myself up at the workhouse."

"Lord Hawthorne should have _ensured_ that you wouldn't lose anything at all."

She glares over at her friend then, carefully holds Marigold just a little tighter. "You know as well as I do that that was not George's fault. We have no heirs and until cousin Susan had her boy, the title might have died with me. Isn't it better that it live on with the new generation?"

"Not at your expense, my dear." Violet folds her hands on her cane, her lips twisted obstinately. Elsie sends a pleading look to Robert. He struggled with the same issue only a few years ago. She is lucky, really, that she kept the title for as long as she did, widowed and without a son.

"I do wish you'd brought the matter to our attention earlier, Aunt Elizabeth. Mama is right about that; we might have thought of something."

Ah, he is so much his mother's son really, always so sure that he can do better.

"I've had one of the best lawyers in England on it, Robert. There's nothing that can be done. They aren't contesting George's Will at least, and I've been told they could. I'll keep the villa in France and the money he put aside for me. Perhaps I could take up a profession. There's still some life in me yet." She smirks, winks at Edith. "Does your paper need a new journalist? I think I could quite enjoy delving into people's secrets and unveiling the truth for the world."

"Oh how vulgar. I shan't talk to you if you won't take the matter seriously, Elizabeth."

She laughs, lifts Marigold from her lap to the floor and passes down the small patchwork bunny she brought for her. "If I had known that was all it took Violet, I'd have taken a good many things less seriously over the years. It's too late now to do anything." She adds when even Isobel glares at her. "You know I kept it from you because I feared this would be your reaction."

"Perhaps you're in shock and the tragedy of it will hit you unexpectedly some time next week."

She rises and approaches her friend, almost jumps to see Mr Carson's silent figure by the door. "Kindly remember that I'm not you, Violet. I wasn't born for this life. The dresses, the cars, the holidays…They were nice while they lasted but I will survive without them."

"But what will you do?"

Violet grasps her hand, holds it tight and Elsie smiles, feels tears build for the first time since she raised the topic this evening. "I'll move to France, I think. I've always preferred it there; there's so little ceremony that there'll be no drama when I show up as Mrs Roberts inside of Lady Hawthorne." She pauses, looks around at the remaining members of this family she has found herself a part of. "And I had hoped I could still come here, when I do return to England, after the news has settled a little."

"Of course, you're always welcome here Auntie. Isn't she Robert?"

Robert looks at his wife, straightens his jacket and bends in an absurd little bow. "Of course you are Elizabeth. And don't worry about waiting out the talk, we want you here for Christmas."

"Robert, that's only a few months away, please, you mustn't just for my sake. I'll be fine, perhaps next year I could—"

"Oh do be quiet Elizabeth. He's your better now, do as you're told."

—

It was of course decided then, whatever she might have said about it.

She really had left it as late as she could to tell them all and so she stayed only a few more days before returning to the House and packing up her things.

There was no true rush, the new heir but a newborn really, and his family not too concerned with moving into the manor. Still, she has always liked to see things done in a timely manor and if she is to survive the social backlash of this, she cannot wait around until she is asked to move out.

{Ethel cries when she says goodbye to her and Charlie. She has Susan's word that the girl will keep her position for as long as she wants it, but the money put aside for the lad's education is Elsie's alone. She can spare it, even now and Charlie's future is a far better investment than another dress or one last fine meal at the Ritz.}

She takes a boat out to the South of France and looks back only the once to see the coastline looking too small in the distance. It's not the first time she has said goodbye to one country to live in another and at least if her accent changes now it is for the sake of a new language and not social vanity.

France will feel like home soon enough, she is sure, and she will have Christmas at Downton to look forward to and promises from the girls and Tom to send news and pictures of the children when they can.

As England disappears from sight she takes a deep breath, feels the pain she has been concealing take hold at last.

She crosses into France in tears for what she has lost, but when she steps off of the boat no one can tell she is not overjoyed to be there.

—

_**December, 1924**_

"Far be it from me to say so, milady, but as the guest of honour, won't they be looking for you?"

"Oh I hope not, Mr Carson. Not for a few more minutes at least."

She stayed as long as she could amidst the Lords and Ladies, the Counts and Countesses, all of them with a word or two of sympathy, and _'oh don't you look well, you seem to be taking it in stride and France is a lovely place to stay'_. "Mr Carson I'm afraid that if I hear one more person begin to call me 'Lady' and then stutter through an apology, I might just scream. Or murder the lot of them."

She had escaped as soon as she could work her way clear to a door out of the Ballroom and then paced the Library twice before she calmed enough not to just take herself to bed and be done with it.

"I'm sure they mean no harm, milady. It's an unusual situation."

She narrows her eyes at him, leans back into the armchair again. "You seem to be coping better with it than they are, Mr Carson. Still calling me Lady, but I suppose you call everyone that."

"Not His Lordship, milady."

She can't help the laugh that escapes her, the first since she found herself back on English soil.

"Of course, how silly of me." He has his hands behind his back as he stands to attention by the door. The closed door. "Mr Carson, I don't suppose you would join me for that cup of tea now?"

She gives him his due, he does at least appear to be thinking about it this time. "I'm afraid not, milady."

"No. I hadn't really thought you would."

Silence falls again between them, she can hear the wireless in the ballroom, knows it to be the wireless and not the live band because it sounds tinny, echoes oddly through the walls.

"Do you know the worst part of all this, Mr Carson?"

She doesn't look at him and gives him only a second in which to answer as she knows he won't. "It isn't being made to leave the manor, though I do miss it rather more than I thought I would. It's that I feel like I'm starting out again. Which of course I am, in a way but France is so easy compared to this." She waves her hand at the door, almost unbalances the open book from her knee. She closes it carefully and holds it to her chest, looks up to meet Mr Carson's gaze.

"They're awkward because I no longer fit into their world. And I don't think I have it in me to convince them all a second time that I can."

Her thumb rubs along the spine of the book. Her favourite to read at Christmas; a ghost story really, but at the heart of it, it's about remembering who you are and what really matters in life. She is trying this year, but perhaps she isn't who she thought she was after all.

He takes a step, and then another until she has to tip back her head to look up at him.

"It seems to me, milady that you have two choices. You can convince them, as you say, that you are still the same Lady Hawthorne they have always known, with or without the title."

"And the second choice?" She asks when he pauses, she finds herself quite literally on the edge of her seat listening to him.

"You could simply be yourself, milady and you might find that it is them who do not fit _you _now."

Tears spring into her eyes at his words, his sincerity.

"Do you really believe it could be so simple, Mr Carson?"

"I didn't say it would be simple, milady." He holds out a white handkerchief for her, his initials embroidered at the corner. "But I don't doubt that you will find true friends amongst some of the people here tonight."

She dabs at her eyes carefully, folds the handkerchief and offers it back to him. He waves her away, takes a step back and so she tucks it into the arm of her glove, hidden from sight.

"And yourself, Mr Carson. Might I have your friendship in time?"

He coughs, straightens his waistcoat with a familiar tug. "I'm not sure it would be entirely proper, milady."

"Mrs Roberts." She says with a sniff. "If I'm to have a go at being myself tonight, I should start now and that means I must insist that you call me Mrs Roberts."

His lips curl for just a second before he pulls them back into a straight line, his eyebrow however remains raised to his hairline.

"As you say, Mrs Roberts."

She smiles at him, stands and places the book on the table beside the chair. "I don't know how you've managed it, Mr Carson. But coming from you, that sounds even grander than 'milady'."

"I'm afraid you must be mistaken, Mrs Roberts." But she could swear she sees a twinkle in his eye as he holds the Library door open for her.

"I must be."

"Perhaps it's the turn your reading has taken since you've been away. Perhaps you'll find that the new book in your room resettles your mind _and_ your tastes."

They are almost at the ballroom and she smiles to Mary as they pass her. Turns to Mr Carson just before she steps back into the throng. "My literary tastes are just fine, thank you Mr Carson. It's my taste in the individuals I wish to be friends with that I'm beginning to question."

"As you say, Mrs Roberts. If you'll excuse me, I shall see that Thomas brings you a drink."

He vanishes then, into the party, into the sidelines but as she circulates, speaks only to those she wants to, laughs off the slips and tells them all honestly how well she really is doing in her new home, she catches him watching her, sees the smile that comes and goes from his face.

She declines another drink when it is offered to her; she'll have a long night ahead of her with whatever book he has chosen for her this time, and she wants to have a clear head for it. Perhaps she is still being hopelessly optimistic, but she thinks he might be open to a discussion on it, if she can manage intelligent enough opinions for him.

—

{Her optimism is of course not misplaced and she is twice as intelligent as any other he might have spoken with.}

Years from now when he has retired and gone travelling with a little of his savings, he will offer her his hand to steady her as she paddles along the French coast and she will warn him that they might simply both go in then and look equally ridiculous.

He will squeeze her hand and smile. "What are friends for, Mrs Roberts if not to keep you from looking ridiculous alone?"


	3. Beautifully Unfinished

**A/N:** _**Thank you so much for all the love for these stories, I adore reading everyone's comments on them! Now we come to the third of our options. The most likely and the saddest. Well, at least no one dies, right?**_

_In which Mr Carson retires and Lady Elizabeth returns a book.  
_

* * *

**_All That We Were Meant To Be, Is Beautifully Unfinished_**

His cottage is a sweet little thing, not at all what she expected of him. Surprisingly, she thinks she could more easily picture herself living here, tending to the spray of ivy around the door, trimming back the rose bushes along the front path.

It is like something from a Christmas card, especially today with the dusting of snow just now coming down. But she has always thought of Mr Carson as more practical, less of a romantic she supposes, and retiring to a pretty cottage _is_ romantic.

The waist-high gate creaks as it opens and she is careful treading along the path although she rather suspects that he would have filled any holes, evened up the gravel that crunches beneath her feet.

She sees a curtain twitch behind the window of the cottage opposite as she turns at the door. Her head tips down reflexively, the wide brim of her hat obscuring the smile that settles on her lips.

A nosey neighbour, oh but he must hate that.

She takes a moment to settle herself, doesn't wonder at the fast beat of her heart in her chest; she has come to accept the reason for it long ago. The handles of her bag rest at her elbow and she tries not to tighten her grip on the book in her hands. Smoothes gloved fingers along the green cover.

Taking a deep breath in she reminds herself that she has chosen to be here. Robert offered to see the book returned, and of course Violet offered to have Spratt do it, that look in her eye that said she knew what was really going on and she would do anything to put a stop to it.

{Isobel had simply written out Mr Carson's new address and handed the folded paper to her with a smile and a sypathetic squeeze to her arm.}

So reminded, and her courage bolstered by the desire not to return to Violet's the book still in hand — or left here on the doorstep, Violet would know she had faltered, that she hadn't spoken to Mr Carson, somehow she would know and Elsie wouldn't hear the end of it — she frees a hand and clasps the little bronze knocker, taps it down twice before taking a step back off of the doorstep to wait.

She isn't waiting long before the door rattles and the handle turns and then she is face-to-face with a rather startled former Butler.

"Milady?!"

She smiles, nerves likely having it come across a lot less genuine that she would like. "Good afternoon Mr Carson, I'm sorry to trouble you, but—"

"Not at all, milady." He interrupts her and she is grateful. He seems embarrased and so she smiles again, tilts her head to the side. "Would you please come in?" He holds the door open for her, as he has so many times in the past but this is different. The hallway she steps into is less grand, the carpet worn and one solid colour, the walls unadorned, the light above their heads a bulb in a shade and not a chandelier; but it is _his_ house and that is all she really takes in about it.

"Thank you Mr Carson, I do hope I'm not disturbing you. I haven't taken you away from something, have I?" He shakes his head and waits beside her while she removes her gloves, tucks them into her pocket and drops the book and her bag onto the small counter by the door. It is a moment before she realises he expects her to turn her back to him so that he can take her coat for her, her hat. "No please, Mr Carson. I can manage, this is your home."

She unbuttons her coat but before she can slip it from her shoulders, he is there, his hands curling around the collar and sliding it from her arms. His fingers brush along her wrists, and as always she feels a tingle, like a shock through her skin at the touch.

She removes her hat pin with less than steady hands and tucks it inside the hat, he takes it from her and places it atop the coat rack, her coat already hanging from a peg beside his.

"If you'll come this way, milady." She picks up the book, but leaves her bag where it is and follows him into a cosy sitting room. A fire burns low in the grate and the light from the window is dim with the fall of snow. He has lit candles, scattered about the room though he has an electric light here too.

"Oh I have disturbed you." She says, spotting an open book on a sidetable, a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and an empty cup resting beside it.

"Just some reading, milady. A book I've read before." He hurries to the table and closes the book, tucks the glasses away in a little pouch that he then throws into a drawer. She can't help but smile; if only he knew, she has a pair just the same that she uses for reading, never in public of course. She keeps hers tucked away in a small box in her bedroom.

"Those are the best kind, Mr Carson. I find I spot something new with every repetition."

He has turned back to her and they stand awkwardly in the room. She hates that, that her presence has made him uncomfortable in his own house. There is nothing, however, that she can do about it now but to press on.

She looks down to the novel in her hands. "I tried to return this to Lord Grantham, only to be told that it wasn't from his collection."

"No milady." Mr Carson shuffles a little on his feet and she looks down to find him wearing house shoes. The shock of it raises her eyes back up his form and only now does she realise that he is without jacket and waistcoat. He looks almost bare in his shirtsleeves, black braces standing out starkly. Her heart gives another jolt in her chest and she can hear Violet in her ear whispering how bad an idea this was.

With some difficulty she pulls herself together and meets his eyes. She won't have him embarrassed by her staring. "You should have told me, Mr Carson. What if I had been gone longer or something had happened to it during my travels? I couldn't bear to think I had taken something of your own from you."

There is something there in his eyes, his expression and she has that feeling again, of knowing a little of what he is thinking but won't say _'it wouldn't be the first time'_, she suspects too that he would not mean his other books.

"We have never spoken of it at all, milady. And I trusted that you would treat it well."

She will not read further into his words now, for fear this might become more difficult for her than it already is.

{This is a goodbye and they both appear to know it.}

"No, we never have. But I hope you'll find that I've returned it to you in a good condition."

She holds the book out to him, her fingers white around the spine with the strength of her grip. His gaze drops from her face to the book, but his arms stay at his side, hands clenched into loose fists at his hips.

She listens to the sound of a clock ticking away on the mantlepiece, his breathing and hers so loud in the quiet. She swallows and worries at the inside of her lip with her teeth, almost bitten raw already with her anxiety since learning of his retirement and the idea of this visit took hold.

{She had been surprised to find Mr Barrow at the door when she arrived at the Abbey, concerned that something had happened to keep Mr Carson away. She does not dislike Mr Barrow, indeed the few times she has overheard him muttering to the footmen, she has found that his sarcasm quite matches her own; only Mr Carson has always been there before to help her with her coat and hat, to lead her to the library — to be the quiet presence in the room while she waits for Cora or one of the girls. Finding herself alone in the library, Mr Barrow having left in search of tea (a one-cup service of course) she had worked herself into quite a state by the time he returned and had hardly waited for him to pour before asking after Mr Carson.

"He retired, milady. Last month, I believe it was."

She had been quite glad to be already sitting down.}

"Keep it." She jumps at his voice, low and quiet as it is.

"I'm sorry, I—"

He reaches out then, strokes a hand down the cover of the book as she has many times, and then lays his fingers at the crease of her elbow, presses gently, his other hand clasping her wrist. She can feel the heat of his skin through the sheer sleeve of her dress as he bends her arm until the book is pressed up against her chest.

"Keep it, milady. You've had it this long, I'll do without it."

Tears spring into her eyes and she clutches the book close enough that the edges dig into her, even through the stiff lines of her corset.

"Thank you Mr Carson, I hope you know—"

But what can she say? She hasn't a book to give him in kind and no matter that she _knows_ what they are really saying, she cannot actually say the words.

"I know, milady." He says, saving her again as good Bulters — good Gentlemen — do.

A minute or two passes, filled with the things they don't ever say and then he releases her arm and steps back, brushes his hand across his shirt in an abortive tug of the jacket he isn't wearing. "Can I get you some tea, milady?"

He waves towards an armchair and she settles into it, the book tucked close to her side. This will be the last time he serves her and so she has to ask him; "If you'll join me, Mr Carson?"

He smiles, a sad smile that she finds herself matching. "I think I shall, milady. Just this once."


	4. If This Was A Fairytale

**A/N: **Okay, this one took a little longer because, well...it's as long as all the other options put together! Please leave reality and any and all knowledge of the peerage system at the door, and take a fantasy trip into the final chapter of Lady Elizabeth's endings. Thank you everyone for all of your kind words and comments. I adore reading them. I know this one is so terribly unlikely, but it was fun to imagine! As an aside, and because I never actually wrote it into any of the Lady Elizabeth stories, I've always imagined that she did indeed start out life as a famer's daughter, but that on her father's death (her mother having died in childbirth) she was taken in as a ward of a Lord and Lady who felt they owed something to her father. She was given the schooling and backing of a Lady, the rest, well...it's Elsie Hughes; what Lord wouldn't be charmed by her?

_In which Lady Violet plays matchmaker and Lady Elizabeth might just get her happily ever after.  
_

* * *

**_If This Was A Fairy tale_**

"Oh, good you're here, come along I have news." Violet hurries into the ballroom and then back out if it at a speed Elsie hasn't seen from her in some years.

With an apologetic nod of her head to Lord Sinderby, she follows after her friend, catches up with her just before the library.

"Violet, whatever's the matter with you?"

The woman seems anxious, fairly vibrating with tension. "Nothing, nothing. What gave you that impression?"

Stepping up to her friend she resists the urge to shake her through force of will alone. "Tell me what's going on; you're as twitchy as young George when Mr Carson has the sweets out."

"Funny you should mention him."

"George?" Her forehead crinkles in confusion.

"No, Carson. Honestly."

"What about Mr Carson? Violet you're not making an ounce of sense."

"And your accent is slipping, my dear." Violet arches an eyebrow and leans on her cane, her free hand flat against the library door. "Although I've always suspected he rather enjoys it."

"Who does?" She flushes lightly, but has to ask. "Are you still talking about Mr Carson?"

"Of course. Now if you'll just step in here, I have someone I'd like to introduce you to."

"Someone-Violet!" But she has already stepped into the library. "I could hit you some days." She mutters beneath her breath before fixing a smile on her face and slipping through the closing door.

"Ah, there you are. Lady Hawthorne, I'd like to introduce you to-"

"Mr Carson?" For it is Mr Carson who stands before them, looking as uncomfortable as she has ever seen him before. He has his hands clasped behind his back, which serves to emphasise the cut of his suit; an evening one of good material and not at all like the livery she is so used to seeing him in.

"Lord Milton, actually, Elizabeth. Isn't that a lark?"

"A-Mr Carson, I-." She stutters before pulling herself together. "Excuse us Mr Carson, we won't be a moment." She smiles at him, grasps Violet's elbow and drags her quickly back into the hall.

"Really, Elizabeth. You're being unforgivably rude. Carson has been waiting in there for you for some time now."

The _gall_ of the woman. "_I'm_ being rude? How could you do this?" She can feel tears gathering in the corners of her eyes and she swallows quickly to fight the lump in her throat. "And to drag Mr Carson into it."

"I didn't drag anyone into anything." She tugs her arm from Elsie's hand, glares at her pointedly; "That seems to be your department, my dear. And I thought you'd be pleased; our old Carson brushes up quite nicely, don't you think? But then I remember you've always thought that."

"Do you find this _funny_, Violet?" The tears are still coming and she blinks them back, knots her hands together in front of herself. "Using what I told you in some elaborate and cruel joke? I told you that because I trusted you."

"My dear, you told be because you had been quite free with Dickie's scotch whisky, trust had nothing to do with it."

"And a good thing too, if this is how you'd betray it." A single tear slips from her eye despite her best efforts and she brushes it away quickly.

"Oh, do get a hold of yourself Elizabeth! You're behaving ridiculously. I haven't betrayed a thing and if you spent a little more time in proper society and a little less cavorting about the continent like a nomad, you would know that recently the third in line to the throne found himself in a, shall we say possibly fatal situation, from which our own Mr Carson rescued him. For his trouble, the Royal family has granted Carson a title of his own. I suppose he just had it laying about unused."

She can't..."I can't believe it."

Violet smirks; "No, I rather thought you wouldn't. Have we finished with the histrionics now? Might we return to the man in there, hmm?" She gestures to the Library and Elsie can't help it, a smile starts to form.

"I was hardly hysterical, Violet, but yes, let's get back to Mr...er, I mean Lord Milton, I suppose."

Violet reaches out and pats her hand. "It does take some getting used to, doesn't it?"

"It does." She agrees, but she thinks she'll manage.

-x-x-x-

"I am sorry , Mr-Lord Milton." She says as the car takes them to the station. "I'm afraid you've been quite bullied into this."

Mr...Lord..._oh_! He has been Mr Carson to her for too long to think of him with another name now {except for the few times, late at night or first thing in the morning, when she considers him _Charles_}. Mr Carson offers a small smile and pats at the front of his coat. "It's no matter milady. I appreciate you opening your home to me at such short notice."

Her home. She hasn't had a chance since Violet made the 'suggestion' to really think about it yet. That he will be in her house; not as a servant as she had long thought would be the only way to have him there, but as an equal; a guest.

"Nonsense, M-Lord Milton." _Had she just called him 'milord?'_ "And I think, given the situation, you might call me Elizabeth now." She hopes he will accede, but she suspects-

"I couldn't milady." -yes, it couldn't possibly be that easy.

"Lady Hawthorne then. It will only confuse the staff otherwise and you will have to get used to it sometime." This is after all why Violet forced then together like this. One of her reasons, anyway.

"I suppose I will." He looks out of the window and she knows that he is not happy; and it is not that he is leaving Downton, it is not her insistence that things will change; it is that they _have_ changed and no matter what happens next he can never go back. She suspects that Mr Barrow would not be struggling so much with that.

She wants nothing more than to make him more comfortable, to touch his hand where it rests on his knee, clasp his fingers and show him that she understands.

Perhaps one day she will be able to do that, but for now she watches his reflection in the window. "You'll have to forgive me, but I'm quite sure I'll slip up myself from time-to-time, _Mr Carson_. You'll simply have to get used to that too."

Her heart thumps in her chest at the smile he doesn't know she can see.

-x-x-x-

"We'll take some tea in my sitting room I think, Mr Crane. And if you could ask Mrs Blye to make up the London room for our guest?"

Mr Crane raises his eyebrows a little higher at her words, but it is not as though he won't have already suspected the gentleman at her side of staying, there had been luggage to bring in after all. "Of course, milady. Would you like Mrs Jones to adjust the menu for tonight's dinner?"

Oh, she had forgotten that. She turns to Mr Carson and has to blink. Despite the clothes, he looks more of a Butler than Mr Crane presently, somehow still folding himself into the shadows even standing in the middle of her entrance hall.

"Do you mind stew at all, Lord Milton? It's rather a tradition whenever I return unexpectedly from a trip away, you see. Mrs Jones keeps a pot going for me and it's quite the most amazing thing; takes me straight back to-" she cuts herself off just in time. She has always wondered what he would say if he knew of her childhood. Now is really not at all the time to find out. "Well, I'm sure we could have some fish instead if you'd prefer?"

Mr Carson seems to have picked up on her near slip, but of course says nothing of it. "The stew will suit fine, Lady Hawthorne."

She can see how terrible this is for him and though she really does have little way to ease that but give him time, she can perhaps provide him with something to disapprove of; something to distract him.

"Splendid, Mr Crane if you could just let Mrs Jones know that we'll be two for dinner of course. And then we can continue on as usual." She knows he will understand.

The eyebrows rise higher - is it something that good Butlers are born with, or something they learn, this ability to flex their eyebrows to such extremes they can convey entire conversations with just one twitch? - but Mr Crane nods and turns to leave. "Very good ma'am."

She can _feel_ Mr Carson tense up beside her.

"Right then, shall we go in?" She steps towards the sitting room, holds the door open for him. It takes him a moment to get moving, his eyes following after Mr Crane as he slips down stairs to the kitchens. "Mr Carson?"

She takes a seat on the settee, gestures that he should sit too. She cannot deny that there is a thrill in knowing that after all these years, he will finally share tea with her. It is not quite how she had hoped he would eventually give in, but if she is right in thinking that he has felt something between them all these years; that it was their differing societal positions that has held his tongue, then perhaps this way of it is better than any she _could_ have imagined.

He takes a seat in the armchair opposite, perches at the very edge and grips his hands tightly together in his lap. There is a very disapproving frown on his face.

"Please say it, there's no ceremony here."

"So it would seem." She blinks, startled and then laughs, a sharp bark of it she is too late to cover with her hand. He looks far too shocked himself to have meant to speak that aloud.

"Oh do forgive me, Mr Carson. But I've wanted to hear what you really think abut things for so long, and that fit quite perfectly with what I have imagined."

"Indeed." She finds her cheeks flushing at the long look he gives her and sets about straightening her skirt.

"Yes well, never mind that. I believe you were about to lambast me for the relaxed nature of my staff?"

For a moment she thinks he might pursue the other and she leans forward a little in her seat, but eventually he shakes his head and turns his thoughts back, no doubt to Mr Crane's actions in the hall. The frown returns.

"He left before ensuring there was someone to escort you into this room."

"Yes he did. I am capable of opening a door myself, of course."

"That is not the point, milady. A good Bulter would never leave-"

"Ah, but you see that is exactly the point _Lord Milton_. For much of the year I stay in hotels and villas where there is minimal staff who have a wealth of other guests to see to. I have always enjoyed an independence and when I return home I like to be comfortable. Waiting around while others open doors or pull curtains that I'm well able to do for myself is not the path to the right kind of comfort for me." She notices then that her accent is slipping through again and for a moment she considers reigning it back in, but she had said they were to go about as normal, and this is the only place she has ever had the freedom to loosen the English-school hold on her. "We weren't all of us born with a silver spoon like your old Lady Grantham."

She can see the fire flash in his eyes as he fights with the familiar urge to defend the family he has worked for, for so long, and the rule that he not argue with a Lady.

Ethel brings in the tea before she finds out which side of him will win.

It's going to be an interesting week.

-x-x-x-

"Mr Crane said I could find you here."

She looks up from the lake to greet Mr Carson as he settles onto the bench beside her. It has only been half a day, but he seems to have decided something the night before and she is already noticing a change about him. A sort of acceptance.

{She wonders if it was the dinner that affected the change in him, the quiet ease of it, or the glasses of sherry they shared later in the evening while she coaxed him into conversation by the fire. Perhaps he had a dream last night, like Ebenezer Scrooge. Or maybe he is simply acting for her sake. It doesn't really matter what it is, a true change or a mask; she knows you can go a long way just playing at a role.}

"He must have thought it important; he usually sends whoever's looking for me on a wild goose chase around the grounds when he knows I'm down here." She explains at his confusion.

"Am I disturbing you?" He rises as if to leave again and she holds out her hand, her fingers just barely brushing his sleeve before she pulls them back.

"No please, stay. Tell me why you're looking for me, what I can do for you."

He sits again and she turns away from his gaze, looks back out across the lake; white and frozen up in the cold.

"Actually Lady Hawthorne, I wondered if there was anything I could do for you." She pushes past the many things that come to mind at that and instead takes a deep breath of December air. It's nearly January - they'll be back at Downton just after the New Year.

"If you mean polishing the silver or seeing to the wine ledgers then I'm afraid you already know the answer to that." His shoulders slump almost imperceptibly at her words. "But if you're at a loose end, you could keep me company for a time?"

"If you're sure I'm not disturbing you, Lady Hawthorne?"

She looks at him and he smiles somewhat sheepishly at her, pulling a book from his coat pocket.

"Not at all, Lord Milton." At least not in ways she minds being disturbed by him.

-x-x-x-

"Are you settling into your room okay?" She asks, cutting into her chicken.

"Yes, thank you."

She smiles and takes a bite. They seem to have come to the unspoken agreement that if he cannot yet bring himself to call her Elizabeth, and she really cannot stand to call him Lord Milton, then they will simply call each other nothing at all.

"I thought I might go into town tomorrow." He says and she looks up in surprise; this will be the first time he's left the house since arriving two days ago. "Can I pick anything up for you?"

For a wild, mad moment she thinks to say that she has some delicate purchases at Madame Mills that she hasn't yet sent Ethel for. But she bites her own tongue; George would have laughed at her for it and she thinks that given more time, if he could become more used to her and her humour, Mr Carson might laugh too, but not today.

"Mr Sinclair, at the bookshop - he called to say that he'd put a book aside for me while I was in Italy and I haven't had a chance to pick it up yet, if you wouldn't mind?"

He nods and she returns to her chicken, the fluffy mashed potatoes that she prefers to any of the more fashionable side dishes.

"You could, that is, if you wanted-" Mr Carson begins, faltering.

She wipes at her mouth with a napkin, pushes her plate aside. "Sorry?"

"Of course it's no trouble collecting the book for you, but I would welcome your company, if you thought you might enjoy it. If you're not too busy, of course?"

They are not seated at opposite ends of the long table, but at right angles at one corner and so she can see that his breathing has quickened and a slight flush has crept to his ears. She bites down hard on her cheek to keep in the little sound of delight she feels building.

"I think I _would_ enjoy that. Thank you." His smile is part relief, part nerves and partly something that she can't read.

He lays his own knife and fork against his plate and she stands, pulls at the bell by the wall for Mr Crane to come and collect their dishes.

-x-x-x-

"I don't know what could have possibly led you to believe I'm at all busy." She says later, when they have settled in the library with a glass of scotch. "I know for a fact that you yourself are struggling to fill your days here."

"I will admit to finding the adjustment...trying."

She laughs, sips at her drink. "Surely you know the truth by now? The English upper classes are lazy by nature, my dear. It's why I spend so much time amidst the bustle of Europe. There's always something to sink your teeth into there."

For some reason his smile is gentler tonight and - dare she think it? - even fond.

{It is not until she is changing for bed, her corset half-unlaced that she recalls the endearment. Heat rises to her cheeks all the way from her chest and she stumbles to the bed, collapses onto it as the backs of her knees hit the mattress.

She brings a suddenly cold hand up to her cheek before dropping it to cover her mouth. Oh but he hadn't protested had he?

She laughs into her palm and flops back quite ungracefully onto her bedcovers. Perhaps there is a chance after all, that she hasn't imagined everything between them.

She lays there for some time, staring up at the ceiling, lost in the realisation that it might not only be Mr Carson's life that has changed, but her own future too.}

-x-x-x-

"There was nothing wrong with the book!"

"I beg to differ "

"Yes, I thought you might."

"It cannot be healthy, reading so much gothic literature."

"Dracula is not- oh, I suppose that's a poor example. But the others-"

"Mr Sinclair had them hidden at the back, doesn't that tell you something?"

"It tells me that the authors are underappreciated and that I am reading ahead of the fashion."

"_So_ far ahead, I'm sorry to say I don't believe that fashion will ever catch up with you."

"Oh hush, you're not at all sorry if the smug look on your face is anything to go by."

"I assure you there is nothing smug about my expression, it's simply the unfortunate shape of my face."

"And yet how fortunate that it should suit so many situations, so well."

"Excuse me, ma'am, sir. But have you decided on the apple or the peach pie?"

-x-x-x-

She wanders the grounds that afternoon, young Charlie tugging her along by her hand.

She has only three more days with Mr Carson before they will return to Downton and then he will move on to take over the little House at Milton, and she...well, she hasn't decided yet.

She had intended to stay her for a while, at least until the Spring, but she isn't sure that she can stand the silence she'll return to, the emptiness of evenings alone now that she has got used to his conversation. {Hadn't she always known it would be this way? That he could be relied upon for intelligent opinions and passionate debate, if only he allowed himself to express them. And now that she has had the experience of them, has spent an hour just the night before arguing over Chaucer with him, she isn't sure that she wasn't better off before with only the suspicion of how much fun it could be had.}

"Lady Beth?" She hums at the old moniker, which still sounds more like 'laid'bth' and is exactly how he says 'lady bird' too, much to Mr Crane's not-so-secret amusement. She gets the feeling that the young boy doesn't even notice anymore. She is Laid'bth to him and likely will be until he attends school next September. "You shouldn't be sad."

She looks down at his little blonde head only to find his eyes already raised to hers. "What makes you think I'm sad, Charlie?"

He tilts his head and then wiggles his fingers, gestures for her to lean down to him. She acquiesces easily, kneeling carefully beside him. He reaches out a hand and touches her cheek. Holds his fingers out to her when he pulls back. His fingertips are wet. "Oh."

"Ma says people cry when they're happy too. But you're not smiling."

She swallows, feels more tears gathering. She pulls the lad close, his little arms wrapping right around her waist. "You're a very clever boy Charlie."

She leans back, places her hands on his shoulders. "And see;" she says, her lips curling up as she looks at him. "you make me happy."

"You're smiling." He points out and she nods. "Good. Sad people are boring."

She laughs and rises back to her feet, clasps Charlie's hand in hers again. "Yes, they are aren't they."

{There is movement from amongst the apple trees, likely old Mr Williams tending to them. She doesn't pay any mind to it and doesn't remember that she gave the old gardener the day off.}

-x-x-x-

She is putting the finishing touches on tonight's dessert when he tracks her down. She supposes he has been looking for her, the way that he sighs in relief upon finding her certainly suggests he has been, though he gives no other sign.

"What on Earth are you doing?"

She has her head tipped down as she places the last floret on the top of the cake.

"I'm going to assume that's a rhetorical question."

He takes a seat on the stool beside her, leans forward so that his shoulder brushes hers. It takes a great deal more effort to keep her fingers steady as his breath puffs against he cheek.

"I didn't know your hobbies included cake decoration."

The florets placed; she reluctantly sits back. "They don't. I'll have you know I baked this cake from scratch this morning. I thought it would be a nice accompaniment to the champagne tonight. I hope you'll join me as the year ticks over?"

"Is Mrs Jones unwell?"

She crosses her arms over her chest at his disbelief. Honestly, she thought he would have come to understand that she doesn't run this house at all like Downton. "No, although she _will_ be away from the house this evening, as will all the staff that have plans. And where will you be?" She asks pointedly.

He coughs, clearing his throat. "Of course I would be honoured to spend the evening with you. I mean- that is..."

She laughs, she can't help it and her hand rests against his arm. "I understand." She stops short as his fingers curl over hers, squeeze.

"I hope you do."

His eyes are dark, shadowed and she finds it almost impossible to tell what he's thinking, but his hand is warm against hers; smooth and strong.

Suddenly tonight seems a lot more important than the changing of 1924 to '25.

-x-x-x-

He seems nervous later in the drawing room.

After dinner he had suggested they retire here to see in the New Year. He had taken a book and settled into one end of the settee but he has turned perhaps three pages in the two hours they've sat here.

"Is there something on your mind?" She asks when his fidgeting finally gets to her. It isn't until now that she realises just how comfortable he has become in her home, now that he is back to sitting stiff-backed and silent.

He looks to her, seems surprised that she is speaking to him, before he gives a long sigh and shuts his book.

"I think perhaps it will be easier if I just come out with it, as it were."

Well, that's intriguing. She tips her head. "I've never cared much for dancing around a point, certainly."

"No. And I, you see I have always…that is that of course I would never have, before this I wouldn't have even considered, but circumstances having changed as they are, I-"

He stops with a low growl that she feels vibrate through her. The room seems warmer than it was before as he rises from his seat to stand before her.

Vaguely she recognises the sound of the clock in the hall beginning to chime. Midnight.

He holds a hand out to her and she places her own in it, allows him to help her up. There is hardly any space between them as he cups her cheek.

"I'm going to kiss you, Elizabeth."

She locks her knees before they can do more than waver a little beneath her. She isn't sure if it's her name from his lips or the mention of a kiss that starts the blood rushing through her. It could just as easily be his scent, heady around him or the softness of his palm on her face.

"Are you?"

"If you've no objection?"

She wraps her arms around his neck with an embarrassing giggle. "None at all." And then she leans up into him and presses her mouth to his.

She can feel him smile against her lips before he tilts his head and deepens the kiss.

"Happy New Year, Elizabeth." He says as they pull apart, nuzzling into her neck.

"Yes," she agrees, tipping back her head. "I think it will be Charles."

-x-x-x-

They return to Downton two days later.

Violet smiles knowingly at her over her wine glass, even as Robert attempts a stuttered conversation with his former Butler.

Edith sidles up to her as she watches Charles valiantly attempt to resist falling into the familiar role. She is so proud of him and could throttle Violet for making them come here today. Charles is really not suited for this life, but next week they will be in Paris and she cannot wait to hear his opinions on the French. "So Aunt Elsie, should I start calling him 'Uncle Carson?'"

She glares at the young woman, but can't keep it up for long. "When we pass back this way in April, yes, I think you can. If only to see the look on your Father's face when you do."

Charles' eyes seek her out across the room, pleadingly.

"Excuse me dear." She says, and makes her way to stand at his side. He grips her hand tight and behind her she can hear Violet's amused laugh. "Robert, aren't you rather neglecting your other guests."

He jumps at the sound of her voice and nods. "Yes of course, do excuse me."

"Thank you." Charles says when Robert has disappeared into the crowd.

"Anytime. I wish I'd had someone to save me from him at times."

His hand squeezes hers and she turns to him, feels herself soften at the look in his eyes. "Would you join me for a cup of tea, Elizabeth? I know somewhere we won't be disturbed. If you don't think we'll be missed."

She looks away from him not to search out the pairs of eyes she can feel on her back, that she _has _felt on her since their arrival, but to catch those of her oldest friend. Violet nods and flaps her hand, lifts her chin in the direction of the doors. She smiles back gratefully. "You know, I don't think I care if we are. "

He leads her from the room with a hand at her back and all she can think is that she will marry him soon and somehow she really must convince him to call her _Elsie_.

**The End.**

* * *

_Every end should be followed by great new beginning_

* * *

_**Thanks everyone. Thank you. Have a wonderful new year!**_


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